


Brave New World

by oldwickedsongs



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Historical Accuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:39:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldwickedsongs/pseuds/oldwickedsongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meyer and AR glimpse the future by accident and while one dismisses it, the other knows all too well what comes next. A brief snapshot of one age meeting another- and not quite understanding it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brave New World

It will be years later before Meyer realizes what really happened that night in 26’ and what he witnessed on that street corner. And when he does, despite having the clarity of hindsight he still won’t believe it. How could he? How could anyone have known then what would come. Even AR, with all his gifts of foresight, would have never seen this coming. 

They’d been in the German neighborhood for some scheme, now long forgotten with Charlie somewhere out of town. Saratoga maybe. Or AC. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that it was the Jew boys on the street that night. It was AR and Meyer and in truth, he loved those moments. The Bankroll was a genius, despite everything else he was and when he spoke, Meyer just relished the chance to keep up. He liked watching his mind worked, like the angles no one else saw, and the percentages and it always struck him that AR seemed unaware of it. 

 

It was AR who noticed it first; and it stopped him in his tracks; caught his attention so completely that his hands were still up from the story he was explaining. There was a strange look in his eye too that wasn’t fear. It was rapt interest and that should have been Meyer’s first warning. Anything that caught AR’s interest always turned out to be big. 

He was standing in the doorway of a German American Bund; they’d left the door open for late arrivals and there was a speaker near the back of the room with a dozen or so immigrants in various degrees of boredom. But the speaker wasn’t what had caught AR’s attention. It was the flag hanging behind him; on a field of blood red was a broken cross in black against a circle of white. 

AR stood there for a long time, watching the speaker before he finally jutted his chin towards him. “What’s he saying?”

Meyer tried to muster a chuckle. He knew from personal experience that AR’s English was near perfect, his Yiddish was out of use and in matters of German or Polish he was useless. He’d always thought AR’s people came from Germany and when he voiced that, AR made a face before replying his family came from Brooklyn. Meyer pushed passed him to listen. What he heard was enough to turn his mood; and dismissing it with a waved hand. “Same old filth from Poland. Jew-bashing.” 

AR seemed still transfixed by the vision. He had the same look in his eyes children got from visits to the Zoo, studying the Crocodiles and Zebra. This was familiar and at the same thing completely alien. They’d faced the hooked nose comments before; even AR who had New York under his thumb. He was King of the Shylocks here, his money shielded him, and the Antonios of Gotham kissed his feet. This felt different. Later, Meyer would wonder if he sensed danger or history. Or if there was anything at all that caught AR’s imagine except a dramatic flag and a person who spoke with passion in a language he could not understand. 

Then, as if dismissing a servant, AR turned on the heels of his shoes that would cost any worker in there a month’s wages and motioned for him to follow. “Angry words from helpless folks.” He snapped. “They’re a dime a dozen. Someone will take em…”

“So sure, eh AR?” Meyer shot back, half for the reassurance and half to tease AR’s childlike certainty of his superiority. It was something distinctly American, he realized, and it was part of the country’s charm. Part of the Bankroll’s. What couldn’t money fix? Miles away from centuries of history and bigotry, all that mattered here was the cash in hand and ego. 

“Trust me, Meyer. When you’re that desperate- doesn’t matter if you’re voting or shooting craps.” AR said quietly, “You always lose.”


End file.
